A Windward Tide
by Ruby Isabella
Summary: WARNING: Slash (male-male). Norrington struggles with feelings for Will Turner.


Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction that was created neither for sale nor profit. "Pirates of the Caribbean" is the property of Disney.  
  
~ A Windward Tide ~ by Ruby Isabella  
  
He hadn't had to come himself. That was the advantage of being a captain, wasn't it--having men under you who could be sent off on tedious errands such as the one that brought him to this street. This building. Standing under this sign.  
  
Gilette had offered to call one of the men down for him.  
  
"Don't think of it," he'd said with a wave of his hand. "I had been meaning to get out that way anyway."  
  
Captain Norrington took a deep breath just outside the blacksmith shop's oversized door, but then, like prickly heat, he felt the stares--real or imagined--of people behind him crawling over his neck. He straightened his spine, then yanked open the door.  
  
"Hello?" he called into the dimness.  
  
"Captain Norrington?" came a voice from his left--a voice that made the air sound like velvet.  
  
As Norrington turned his head toward young Will Turner, his eyes scanned the room. "Where's Brown?"  
  
"Mr. Brown is...out," Will answered, and that was true enough--he had dragged his chair to a shadowy back corner where customers were unlikely to notice him at first or even second glance. And then he had proceeded, without wasting another moment of the day, to pass...out. "Perhaps I can be of some help?"  
  
"Perhaps you can."  
  
Will put his hands behind him, waited for the Captain to expound. Instead the man stepped off the stairs and, his own hands clasped behind his back, began to wander, peering at the Will's handiwork.  
  
"I must say," Norrington said finally, leaning in to run his finger along the flat of the blade of one of Will's swords, "old Brown has certainly mastered his craft in his later years. You know--" He turned to face Will. "Before he took you on as an apprentice, I dare say his work was mediocre at best. Serviceable, maybe." He turned his attention back to the swords. "In fact, I have a sword he made...it must be ten years ago now. I'd like to replace it. It certainly _needs_ replacing. One of these, though...." He touched another blade. "One of these would likely never need replacing."  
  
This was _not_ what he'd come here for. But the swords.... He glanced at Will again, taking in the boy's expression. Hurt and pride warred in the boy's eyes. Soot darkened the flat of his chin, accentuating his pride. Norrington tucked his own chin and stifled a smile.  
  
"I'm sure you'll find all of these to be of exceptional quality." Will hopped down the stairs.  
  
"Yes. Yes, I'm impressed with each one. But...."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Norrington turned, folded his hands, and said, "I want something custom." He'd come to discuss the fashioning of a replacement trunnion for one of the Interceptor's bowchasers. His mouth, however, carried him further from his purpose with each passing word.  
  
"Did you have something in mind?"  
  
"No," Norrington answered almost absently as he fingered yet another well- made sword. "No, I haven't." He cleared his throat, let his hand drop. "But that's not why I'm here."  
  
***  
  
Norrington, standing on the floorboards with one wrist clasped in the opposite hand behind his back, tried to convince himself that he wasn't watching Will work on the damaged bowchaser in the midday sun.  
  
"Sir?" came Gilette's voice.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"You haven't answered my question."  
  
"Haven't I?"  
  
At the bow of the ship, Will sat back on his heels. He wiped his shirtsleeve across his brow. Norrington's thumb stroked the inside of his own wrist.  
  
"Sir?" Gilette prompted again.  
  
***  
  
"Congratulations yet again, Bickerstaff." Norrington slapped the new father on the back for perhaps the fourth time. Ale sloshed in his mug, and then he brought the mug to his lips. The more he offered congratulations, the more justified he felt in imbibing. He was, after all, celebrating, was he not?  
  
"Sir?" asked Gilette, dropping a light hand on Norrington's shoulder as Norrington stumbled sideways into the heavy wooden table. Around them the other officers--in fact, all of the crew of the Interceptor and the Dauntless, grouped in unspoken segregation of officer and tar at opposite ends of the room--laughed and used Bickerstaff's new baby boy as an excuse to imbibe.  
  
"Yes?" Norrington straightened himself.  
  
"Perhaps you were on your way to your quarters?"  
  
Norrington pulled at the bottom of his jacket. He looked around. Yes, he was as inebriated as any of the others. That was probably not conduct becoming a captain--and it certainly wasn't conduct he would have allowed himself, normally. What had he been thinking?  
  
"Gilette, you are a step ahead, aren't you?" He grasped the other man's shoulder and shook it, perhaps a bit too harshly. Gilette's cautious smile took a turn toward strained.  
  
"Right, then." Norrington set down his cup. "I think I shall take a walk to clear my head and then, yes, I'll be on my way to my quarters."  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
***  
  
"Captain Norrington?" Will lifted his lantern in the doorway. He had only just drifted off to sleep, it seemed, when urgent pounding on the blacksmith shop's back door roused him.  
  
Will's hair, pulled back into a pony tail even for sleep, had come loose in places. These loose strands glowed wildly in the lantern's orange light.  
  
"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."  
  
Norrington lifted a hand, started to say, "Well," with no idea of what he would finish with.  
  
"I have your sword, if you'd like to take it. I only just finished an hour ago."  
  
"An hour?" Norrington was unsure of the time but imagined it to be after eleven, certainly. Perhaps close to midnight. "Aren't you the industrious little blacksmith?" He swaggered/staggered inside, drawn by the receding light of Will's lamp as Will moved deeper into the shop to retrieve the sword. He removed his hat, clutched it in his hands.  
  
"I prefer to get my work off my plate as expediently as possible, Captain." Will set the lamp down and turned, displaying the newly made sword across his palms.  
  
The flickering lamplight just behind Will shined through the edges of his plain white nightshirt wherever the sweat-sticky cloth didn't cling to his body.  
  
Norrington shifted his neck against his jacket's stiff collar. He set his hat on an anvil, taking the opportunity to avert his face and regain his composure. This walk he had taken to clear his head had ended up having the opposite effect.  
  
He turned back to Will, who still offered the sword. "Thank you, Mr. Turner." His fingers brushed Will's hand as he took the sword in his own. He stared blankly at its hilt.  
  
"Is it to your satisfaction?" Will asked.  
  
"Yes. Yes, it's very good." Lamplight flashed off the blade.  
  
Will stepped forward to take the sword from him. Norrington sucked in his breath at the scent of Will's sweat, a scent that was gone--as Will stepped back--almost as quickly as it had come.  
  
"If I might be allowed to say so, sir..." Will adopted an opening stance, sword held at the ready. "I believe this is my finest piece yet." It really was, and that, coupled with the lateness of the hour allowed the admission that it was _his_ work to pass his lips before he could pull it back.  
  
"Yes. Yes, it's excellent, Mr. Turner," Norrington murmured. He watched the sword's blade slice the air. "Excellent work." His feet were planted firmly on the blacksmith shop's floor, but still he felt as though he was stumbling. "Excellent work, just as was your repair job on my bowchaser. Of course I expected no less."  
  
Relieved not to have been pressed about the credit he'd taken for forging the sword, Will dipped in a slight bow and offered the sword back to Norrington. "Thank you, Captain. Your compliment honors me."  
  
After a few seconds, Will tilted his head in concern. "Captain?" Norrington hadn't made a move to take the sword. He followed Norrington's gaze from his eyes down to...his own up-turned wrist. He snapped his eyes back to Norrington's. "Captain."  
  
"I must go." Norrington turned, retrieved his hat from the anvil, clutched it in front of his stomach.  
  
"Is there something wrong? Is the sword not to your--"  
  
"No. It's...it's excellent, W-- Mr. Turner. I'll come by for it tomorrow." He glanced at the sword's hilt, the strong fingers curved around it. "At a civil hour. I apologize for having bothered you so late, roused you out of your bed."  
  
He turned without risking a glance into Will's face--turned and began to stride toward the door.  
  
"Sir."  
  
The short flight of wooden stairs shook as he hurried up them.  
  
"Sir. Captain Norrington."  
  
Norrington stopped, his hand on the door. Through a crack in the boards, he could see the lamplit street. "Yes, Mr. Turner."  
  
"Take the sword tonight. You're here, after all, and it's finished."  
  
He hadn't heard Will cross the shop's dirt floor; he only heard his soft footsteps climbing the stairs.  
  
"Take it tonight."  
  
Norrington pressed his head against the door. His back felt exposed-- exposed to Will's heat, his intense gaze, his very presence.  
  
"If it's that you don't have the payment on you, you can--"  
  
"Will."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Norrington cleared his throat. "Will you drop it by tomorrow? I'll have Murtogg expecting it." Before he could get an answer, he yanked open the door to the blacksmith shop and pulled himself out into the cool night air. The door clapped shut behind him.  
  
***  
  
"Sir." Murtogg rushed to catch up with the captain who, it seemed, had neither heard nor seen him trying to get his attention. "Sir, your delivery arrived. I had it put on your desk."  
  
"Fine. Thank you, Murtogg."  
  
"You're welcome, sir. Oh, there's one thing."  
  
Norrington's stride slowed. "One thing?"  
  
"The boy who delivered it insisted I deliver this note. He was quite adamant about making sure that it left my hand only to be passed to yours, sir."  
  
Norrington, now fully stopped, turned to Murtogg who, indeed, was holding out a folded and sealed paper.  
  
"Instructions for the care of your new sword perhaps, sir?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, certainly."  
  
"It's a lovely one. He showed us. Old Mr. Brown does fine work, he does."  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Murtogg."  
  
"Sir? The note?" Murtogg lifted it toward Norrington.  
  
"Yes. Thank you." Seemingly without moving, he found himself holding the note and watching Murtogg toddle away.  
  
***  
  
"Dear Captain,  
  
It is assuredly not my place to speak out, but having lost sleep all last night over this, I feel I must. Your reaction to the sword last night--it was not as expected. I cannot help but feel that you are dissatisfied with it in some way. I would like--"  
  
_Lost all sleep._ Norrington was reminded of himself, tossing in bed, unable to escape his own thoughts. He found comfort in learning that Will had been lying awake thinking of him all night as well, if for different reasons.  
  
_Reaction to the sword._ He hadn't come for the sword. Just as when he'd come to order the repair of the bowchaser, the ship was blown off course the minute he found himself face to face with will. He'd been drunk and he'd come to....  
  
His face hot with embarrassment, he crumpled the note. The sails on this ludicrous preoccupation needed to be furled, and now was the time to do it. Now, before he ruined his reputation and his career.  
  
***  
  
"Thank you for inviting me, Governor Swann." On the governor's expansive main floor, the more esteemed residents of Port Royal, along with a number of foreign dignitaries and their wives, mingled and chattered. Native servants waved woven leaves at the edges of the crowd to keep the guests cool. Still, many of the women fluttered personal fans at their necks, bosoms, and cheeks.  
  
"Nonsense, Norrington. Nonsense." The governor took Norrington's upper arm and turned, looking for someone in the crowd. "Elizabeth?"  
  
Norrington, his attention having turned to a smudge that marred one of the gold buttons on his coat, looked up to find the answer to bolstering both his career and his reputation whirling toward him.  
  
"Miss Swann," he said, taking and kissing her hand.  
  
"Captain Norrington."  
  
"Elizabeth, see that the captain is taken care of."  
  
"Yes, father," Elizabeth said with one of her gracious and warming smiles. She took Norrington by the head and led him into the swirl of skirts of wigs.  
  
***  
  
Norrington threw off the sheet and climbed from his bed. Wearing only his nightshirt, he paced his floor.  
  
Elizabeth was beautiful, enchanting, polite, proper....  
  
Why on earth couldn't he lie awake thinking about _her_, then? Why, no matter how hard he tried, did Will Turner's serious eyes appear whenever closed his own? Why was it Will's lips he saw murmuring to him? Smiling at him? Waiting to be kissed by him?  
  
And why was it so insufferably humid on this island?  
  
He plucked loose the ties at the chest of the nightshirt, then pulled the whole thing over his head. He cast it to the floor as he strode to his cabinet for clothing he could wear outside of his room. Once again he felt the need to clear his head--and cool his skin, if that was possible in this tropical hell--but this time he at least had confidence in the fact that his soberness would not lead him to the blacksmith's door.  
  
He did _not_ need to stand stammering and blushing in young Mr. Turner's presence yet again.  
  
He needed to give himself a good talking-to. Straighten himself out. Get himself firmly on course to....  
  
To marrying the governor's gracious and well-bred daughter, of course. There wasn't a finer candidate for a wife in all of Port Royal--perhaps not even in all of the British colonies. Not in Britain herself! His mouth tightened as he assured himself that this was true. It was!  
  
He had spent too much time onboard ships, that was all. Too much time around men. It would merely take but a little determination to become accustomed to thinking of women. Determination and practice.  
  
He straightened. He was dressed. The quiet night and, with luck, a breeze or two awaited him. A walk, some fresh air, a bit more resolve, and then he would be ready to settle on his mattress once again and sleep, free of thoughts of Will Turner. Full of thoughts of the lovely Miss Swann.  
  
***  
  
"Captain Norrington!"  
  
Will's voice sounded as surprised as Norrington felt, having heard a voice that seemed to have no owner. He surveyed the street but only saw a large, stumbling, drunken--  
  
Mr. Brown. And on the far side of him, bent under his burden, Will struggled to return him to the blacksmith shop.  
  
"Mr. Turner. Can I be of some help?"  
  
Will, though young and strong, appeared overburdened by Mr. Brown's barely conscious heft.  
  
"I'm almost there...."  
  
Norrington looked down the street. "Almost there? You've a quarter mile to go, at least. Here." He slipped under Mr. Brown's other arm and took up half the weight.  
  
"I appreciate your wanting to help, but--"  
  
"And I'm happy to give it."  
  
"Captain Norrington, really--"  
  
"How far had you dragged him already? Have you considered getting a cart for this purpose?"  
  
"It doesn't happen--"  
  
"_Now_ we're almost there." Without releasing Brown, Norrington fumbled the shop door open. "Where do we put him?"  
  
"In the back. Or.... Well, his apartment is upstairs, but...."  
  
Norrington glanced at the steep, narrow stairway rising along the side wall. "Right. In back it is."  
  
Brown began to snore the instant his back hit Will's mattress. Norrington and Will stood alongside the bunk and stared at the drunken man.  
  
"Well," Norrington said finally.  
  
"Thank you for your help."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Will lifted Brown's foot and shoved it onto the bed with his other one. "I probably don't have to ask this, but--"  
  
"Yes, although I suspect much of Port Royal has guessed or whispered about your master's condition, they won't hear a word of it from me."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Norrington pressed his hands together. "Well." He straightened then, as a question occurred to him. Asking would lead to trouble. _Not_ asking would lead to many a restless night speculating (wildly) on where it would have gone if he _had_ asked. He turned to Will. "Where will you sleep, then?"  
  
"There's his bed, upstairs, if I'm careful to be out of it before he wakes." Will lifted an eyebrow as his unconscious benefactor. "Which shouldn't be a problem, I don't think. Or there's the chair or a table in the shop."  
  
Norrington nodded. He had no alternatives to offer. Despite the images that swam through his head of Will climbing into his bed, pulling the sheet up to his chest, waiting for Norrington to join him.... He couldn't offer that. Not even if he thought Will actually wanted that. The rumors! The captain and a boy. A blacksmith's apprentice. An orphan. He wanted to touch Will's cheek.  
  
Will's eyebrows lifted once again, which was when Norrington realized he was being stared at--and probably doing some staring himself.  
  
"Captain?"  
  
"Don't call me that." He turned and focused on Brown. Ugly man. Disgusting.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Call me Norrington. Or... Or James." He pulled his lip under his teeth. Then: "Not on the street, mind you. When.... No, never mind. Forgive me, Mr. Turner. The lateness of the night and some sort of feeling of camaraderie resulting from dragging your--"  
  
"Will."  
  
"Pardon me?"  
  
"You can call me Will. Not on the street, mind you." His eyes flashed.  
  
"Fine. Will." He once again forced his attention on the drunken man on the bed, tracing the wrinkles in the man's soiled coat with his gaze.  
  
He jumped at the light touch that fell on his arm.  
  
"Come on. We'd better leave him to sleep it off."  
  
Norrington followed Will from the tuny back room, only realizing as he pulled the door shut that he'd just been in Will's room. He glanced over his shoulder. He's just been in Will's room. Where Will slept. Where Will probably.... Did he? Of course he did. All men did, didn't they?  
  
"James?"  
  
He snapped his attention back to reality. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Can I get you something?"  
  
"No. No, I-- I should be going. I have an early morning...." And he had images in his head of Will lying in the narrow bunk in the other room, his fingers sliding down his stomach....  
  
"As do I, now that you mention it."  
  
"Well. Then."  
  
"Thank you for your assistance."  
  
"Huh? Oh. Yes. You're welcome. If ever you run into a problem...." He gestured toward the back room. Then he wrinkled his brow. "What do you plan to do, anyway? Keep up the façade that he's the accomplished master until he completely pickles himself?"  
  
"I.... Yes, I guess that's the extent of my plan."  
  
Norrington looked once again at the door to the back room. "Yes. Well. Maybe you'll think of something better." He turned to meet Will's gaze. "These drunks can hold on an amazing number of years."  
  
"As can I."  
  
Norrington imagined he saw the corner of Will's mouth pull up a bit with that statement, and he assigned that imagining more significance than he knew it to rightfully have. _Elizabeth_, he told himself. He was supposed to have been resolving to make her his wife.  
  
"I'm off, then," he said with more bravado than he felt. If he was quite honest with himself, his feet were heavy, and his heart begged him to stay just a little longer, stand just a little closer. He appeased it by thrusting his hand forward.  
  
Will, the corner of his mouth rising into a true smile, clasped it. "Goodnight, James."  
  
"Goodnight, Will."  
  
***  
  
Something about that night's exchange freed him somehow. He stood on the Interceptor's deck the next afternoon with the wind--yes, wind, albeit a hot one--blowing sea air into his face. It felt good. And getting the ship underway the next day would feel even better. They'd been docked far too long. Seamen belonged on the sea.  
  
All around him, men worked with a renewed spirit, except perhaps Bickerstaff who would be leaving his newborn son behind. Leaving something new always tore at a man.  
  
"It'll be a short trip." He settled a hand on Bickerstaff's shoulder, causing Bickerstaff to look up from his work. "Just a few weeks."  
  
"It will. Thank you, sir."  
  
Norrington continued on, making his way toward the ship's stern. He strode along with his hands clasped behind him. His gaze took a moment to fall on each man or group of men at their work. There was nothing quite like a smoothly-running command.  
  
"Sir," Gilette said, catching up with him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"The blacksmith is here to check on the new trunnion before we pull out."  
  
Norrington smiled. Wasn't that just like Will to double-check the quality of his work before it might be needed? He turned to head back to the bow.  
  
And stopped.  
  
Brown was at the bow chasers, barely looking the bowchasers, or the new trunnion. Instead, he was laughing with a small group of the men.  
  
"Mr. Brown," Norrington said, trying to keep his voice even. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"  
  
"Just checkin' on the lad's work."  
  
Norrington lifted an eyebrow at the gathered men. The grins on their faces faded. They returned to their duties.  
  
Checking on Turner's work. Somehow Brown didn't seem so conscientious as to concern himself with how well Will did his job.  
  
"Everything in order, then?"  
  
Brown made a passing glance at the bowchasers before smiling broadly at Norrington. "Everything looks ship-shape to me."  
  
Norrington stepped in close. "You don't even know which it is he worked on."  
  
"Well they _all_ look ship-shape to me, and that's the true sign of a job well done, right?"  
  
"What are you here for?"  
  
"Well, sir...I hate to have to mention it, but there's been a problem come up concerning the amount the Navy was charged for this here repair. The lad does passable work, but with figures, he's--"  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
Brown pulled himself straight. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Run out of rum, Mr. Brown? Or is it your credit's no longer good with the barkeep?"  
  
"Now, captain--"  
  
"Get off my ship."  
  
Brown's mouth gaped open.  
  
Norrington, his hands once again clasped behind him, turned stiffly and strode off.  
  
***  
  
He left Brown and strode directly down the gangway. No one called to him. He imagined Gilette, though, staring at his back with a look of concern. And then he turned a corner and let out his breath. If Gilette _had_ been staring, he could no longer see him. The wall he'd come around offered shade, too, a break from the relentless sun that, together with the humidity and despite the day's wind, threatened to stew him in his uniform. He tugged his collar. His feet carried him along without requiring any input from his brain, which was just as well. His brain was busy fuming.  
  
Will looked up from an anvil when Norrington pushed the door open. He held a hammer poised in midair. "Captain?"  
  
"Will."  
  
"What brings you?"  
  
"Your Mr. Brown paid a visit to my ship."  
  
Will straightened. His eyes darted toward the chair where Brown spent most of his days, though he knew Brown had left an hour before. He just hadn't know where the man had been headed. To get wrecked, he'd assumed. That was the usual course of things.  
  
"What did he want?"  
  
"More money out of the Navy for your trunnion."  
  
"Sir.... I must apologize."  
  
Norrington waved a hand. "Forget it. It just.... It just fills me with rage that that drunken, worthless, talentless--"  
  
"James."  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know I speak ill of your master." He turned to Will, then. "How can you put up with that lying, cheating...bulbous...smelly...."  
  
Will cracked a smile.  
  
"Foul...inebriated...."  
  
"Flatulent."  
  
"Oh no." Norrington wrinkled his nose. "Really?"  
  
Will nodded.  
  
"I guess I'm not surprised. God, now I'm even more sorry."  
  
Still smiling, Will said, "It's not that terrible. He's unconscious more than he's conscious, and I have quite a bit of freedom to practice my trade." He pulled down one of his swords. "And my fighting skills." He lunged at Norrington, pulling back far short of reaching him, however.  
  
Norrington, to his credit, flinched only a little. His hand, however, came up unbidden, as though his bare palm could fend off the blade's sharp point.  
  
"I hear you're putting out tomorrow," Will said, lowering the sword.  
  
"You hear correctly."  
  
"No more late-night run-ins, then?"  
  
Norrington stiffened, but the lack of a teasing smile on Will's face kept his cheeks from flushing. "No, not for a few weeks, at least."  
  
"Well, then." Will tossed the sword the air. It turned end-over-end, then landed solidly in Will's palm. He hung it back up. "I'll see you then."  
  
"You will, will you?"  
  
"Hope so."  
  
A wagon passed close to the front of the shop. Norrington stared over his shoulder at the shop's door, realizing just how much privacy a blacksmith's shop lacked at midday. When he turned back to Will, he opened his mouth. Searched Will's eyes. Searched for a way to start what he had to say. "Just as I've said that I will keep quiet about Brown's condition, I...."  
  
"Not a word will pass my lips that you've befriended a lowly blacksmith's apprentice."  
  
Befriended. "I don't think of you as lowly."  
  
Will turned back to the anvil.  
  
"Your master...." Norrington stepped forward. "Now _he's_ lowly. I wouldn't be caught dead associating with the likes of him." He lifted his hand. It trembled for a second in the air. Then he lifted it higher and set it on Will's shoulder. Will stopped, his hammer once again frozen in midstroke.  
  
Norrington fought his fear, and the urge to pull back. "Will." His fingers pressed into Will's shoulder. "You're young, and I have a feeling, a bit rash, but...."  
  
As he spoke, Will turned and leaned against the anvil. It took all of Norrington's courage to keep his hand on the young man's shoulder.  
  
"I like you, Will Turner. I like you a lot."  
  
"You're not so young, you know. And, I have a feeling, not a bit a rash, either."  
  
"You don't think so?"  
  
"No."  
  
Norrington's fingers gripped Will's shoulder briefly before cupping the back of his neck. "Not rash?" He gazed into Will's eyes.  
  
"No."  
  
Will's hand settling on his hip was all the encouragement he needed to proceed with an uncharacteristically rash act. His eyelids fluttered closed as he leaned forward--  
  
And was surprised by Will's mouth much closer than he'd expected. Will had straightened and moved forward--quickly--to meet him.  
  
The kiss lasted not a full second before Norrington pulled back, blinking at Will, who smiled at the surprise on Norrington's face.  
  
"You're shipping out tomorrow," Will said, his hand slipping around the back of Norrington's waist.  
  
"Yes." Suddenly he had more than a hypothetical understanding of Bickerstaff's reluctance to leave the port.  
  
"So there's time for one more late-night run-in."  
  
Norrington's fingers, now that they had found skin at the back of Will's neck, sought to memorize every exposed inch. "There is," he answered finally.  
  
Will's hand moved up his back, pulling him closer.  
  
Norrington turned his eyes toward the door, a renewed fear of a shopkeeper with a broken door hinge walking in at the most inopportune moment causing his heart to hammer his chest. "Yes," he said finally, pulling free. "A late-night run-in. I'll return at...."  
  
"Midnight."  
  
"Midnight. Fine." It would give them just a few hours. But then, how long did they need? He clasped the hilt of the sword Will had made for him as he took a step back. They needed--he needed, his heart told him, cramping in his chest--a lot longer than a few hours. But a few hours was more than he'd hoped for. "I'll return...."  
  
"At midnight."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good day, then, Captain Norrington." Will turned back to his anvil and took up his hammer once more.  
  
"Yes. Yes, to you, too, Mr. Turner. Good day."  
  
Will waited until he was sure Norrington's back was to him before looking up from the anvil. He grinned, and his nerves buzzed with excitement over his sudden fortune. Not once had he thought Norrington would actually have an interest in him.  
  
Norrington turned suddenly, at the door, and caught Will's grin before Will could sober it.  
  
"Midnight," Norrington said gravely.  
  
"Midnight," Will agreed, the grin returning against his best efforts to keep it suppressed.  
  
A smile flashed across Norrington's face as well before he tipped his hat and took his leave.  
  
The wind had picked up and changed direction, carrying with it a cooler breeze now. A storm was blowing in. As Norrington looked toward the darkening clouds, one of them burst. A fat rain drop hit him on the cheek, and then another. Smiling, he wiped the first away. The storm--typical for a late-summer Caribbean afternoon--would be over in an hour or less, leaving the beach tousled and strewn with palm leaves in its wake. He couldn't help but make some sort of analogy to how he'd like to leave Will early the next morning, before he had to be back onboard to do his job.  
  
For the moment, and for many moments to come--until an impending promotion to commodore reawakened his concerns over his reputation and career-- Norrington was quite magnificently happy. 


End file.
